open post.
  starters & prompts greatly encouraged! overflow goes here, too. |
[ It's clear skies on Friday, thank God. Clark is at Geum-Hwa's door a minute before 8 in the evening, and while he's shed the suit jacket he wears to work, he's kept the vest on. Clark Kent, mild-mannered journalist, isn't confident enough yet to wear just the shirt without the tie-- and on that note, goodness, the popular suggestion of "unbuttoning the two top ones" would only make him all the more self-conscious.
So: vest, shirt, tie. And, of course, the glasses.
He hasn't really dressed up, if you consider the fact he wears these sorts of things regularly already. But he has a better watch on, expensive, had washed his face and brushed his teeth back home before coming over, and he's put on some nice-smelling, but ultimately mild cologne. He's as ready as he's ever going to get, maybe. It's just a shame his posture is so bad.
Clark rings the doorbell, waiting patiently, and once the door opens he offers Geum-Hwa a smile, even if both his hands are hidden behind him. ]
Good evening! [ His voice cracks. Clark clears his throat. ] Um-- I hope I haven't come too early.
So: vest, shirt, tie. And, of course, the glasses.
He hasn't really dressed up, if you consider the fact he wears these sorts of things regularly already. But he has a better watch on, expensive, had washed his face and brushed his teeth back home before coming over, and he's put on some nice-smelling, but ultimately mild cologne. He's as ready as he's ever going to get, maybe. It's just a shame his posture is so bad.
Clark rings the doorbell, waiting patiently, and once the door opens he offers Geum-Hwa a smile, even if both his hands are hidden behind him. ]
Good evening! [ His voice cracks. Clark clears his throat. ] Um-- I hope I haven't come too early.
[ the look on geum-hwa's face when he greets clark is both relieved and a little frazzled. on his face is a black mask, matching the black nitrile gloves on his hands. ]
No no, you're right on time—
[ there is movement behind him, though: a man gingerly shrugging his shirt back on as he leaves the main area of the studio apartment. geum-hwa glances over as the man nears, offers him a cordial smile and wave as he brushes past the door and clark to be on his way. ]
Same time next week, [ he calls after the man. ] And remember not to scratch it!
[ once the man is gone, geum-hwa turns back to clark, looking sheepish and apologetic. ]
Sorry, that session wound up taking longer than I thought. Is it okay if I just change really quickly? I don't want to go on our date smelling like ink.
[ he ducks away before clark can really answer, leaving the door wide open for him as he starts to pull off his mask, his gloves. it's an unspoken invitation for clark to come in, make himself comfortable. the apartment itself is fairly spacious for a studio, clean and well-kept. on one side of the room is his work station: a single bed and nearby table, and a few framed photographs of some of his designs (both sketches and actual ink on skin) hanging on a nearby wall.
geum-hwa makes a beeline for the other end of the room, though, where his bed is. there's a single wooden partition there that he ducks behind to start getting changed in a flurry of rustling fabric and zipping zippers. ]
No no, you're right on time—
[ there is movement behind him, though: a man gingerly shrugging his shirt back on as he leaves the main area of the studio apartment. geum-hwa glances over as the man nears, offers him a cordial smile and wave as he brushes past the door and clark to be on his way. ]
Same time next week, [ he calls after the man. ] And remember not to scratch it!
[ once the man is gone, geum-hwa turns back to clark, looking sheepish and apologetic. ]
Sorry, that session wound up taking longer than I thought. Is it okay if I just change really quickly? I don't want to go on our date smelling like ink.
[ he ducks away before clark can really answer, leaving the door wide open for him as he starts to pull off his mask, his gloves. it's an unspoken invitation for clark to come in, make himself comfortable. the apartment itself is fairly spacious for a studio, clean and well-kept. on one side of the room is his work station: a single bed and nearby table, and a few framed photographs of some of his designs (both sketches and actual ink on skin) hanging on a nearby wall.
geum-hwa makes a beeline for the other end of the room, though, where his bed is. there's a single wooden partition there that he ducks behind to start getting changed in a flurry of rustling fabric and zipping zippers. ]
"Sorry Mr. Kant, Landman and Zack doesn't really do consulting for your type of, uh, case. I'm sure one of the smaller firms would be happy to speak with you for a nominal fee."
Matt can hear the way the fabric slides over the man's slumped shoulders, dejection as loud in the way he moves as it is soft in the murmured "It's uh...Kent...". Something about the way the man exhales as his shoes turn toward the huge glass doors suggests this isn't the first time he's gotten a negative response. It really shouldn't be any of his business, he's just an intern.
But he's never been able to just let someone slip away when it's clear they need help and he's in a position to offer it.
Altering his path slightly, he angles close enough to tap the side of one loafer with his cane as they near one another, letting his steps stutter to a halt as a look of apology crosses his face.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Didn't see you there." Getting the blind jokes out of the way has been a good policy for him, it's a great icebreaker and it lets people know you're not touchy about the topic. Matt shifts the brown paper bag containing his lunch (sandwich and coffee from the deli across the street) to the crook of his arm and holds out his free hand. "Welcome to Landman and Zack. Can I help you find someone?"
Matt can hear the way the fabric slides over the man's slumped shoulders, dejection as loud in the way he moves as it is soft in the murmured "It's uh...Kent...". Something about the way the man exhales as his shoes turn toward the huge glass doors suggests this isn't the first time he's gotten a negative response. It really shouldn't be any of his business, he's just an intern.
But he's never been able to just let someone slip away when it's clear they need help and he's in a position to offer it.
Altering his path slightly, he angles close enough to tap the side of one loafer with his cane as they near one another, letting his steps stutter to a halt as a look of apology crosses his face.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Didn't see you there." Getting the blind jokes out of the way has been a good policy for him, it's a great icebreaker and it lets people know you're not touchy about the topic. Matt shifts the brown paper bag containing his lunch (sandwich and coffee from the deli across the street) to the crook of his arm and holds out his free hand. "Welcome to Landman and Zack. Can I help you find someone?"
Every time Clark's gone to a law firm, people haven't bothered to give him the time of day. While a part of him isn't surprised, another part of him is saddened by it-- these people are supposed to be able to help, especially those who are wrongly convicted; these people are Earth's answer to the posits of right and wrong... anyone would take Superman's case, he's sure. Anyone would kill just to be associated with him. But for nobodies like Clark Kent? The pool of people willing to help is slim, and the reality of how many go helpless is miserable.
Still, he's just about ready to stamp Landman and Zack out as another firm of many that wouldn't help the everyday citizen. And because Superman-- for all his power, and his abilities, and his reputation-- is no better than any other man you'd see on the street, then he shouldn't be able to ask them for help, either. It's a sad truth, but it's a truth all the same, and one he's about to carry out the door with him up until he feels something touch his foot and Clark Kent decides it's a sensation that requires a soft 'oh!'.
"I'm sorry," he says over the other man's apology, immediate and definite, "sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't..." Lifting his head somewhat to see who'd come across him, Clark is surprised for all of a moment when he notices the cane and the sunglasses... and then even more surprised when he hears the question that comes with him.
He blinks. "F-Find someone?" And then he looks over his shoulder at the receptionist that'd turned him down right off the bat, as if afraid she'd reprimand him for trying again.
"Well, I don't think so," he admits, turning to look at the other man (even if, he knows, he can't look back). "Um, they actually told me that my case... rather, they told me to leave just now, and I-- I don't want to cause any trouble."
He manages a small smile, soft in appreciation for this man's efforts to speak with him. "But it was, uh, nice to meet you." The outstretched hand is taken, and Clark's grip isn't especially firm, but he manages to shake it just fine. "And I'm sorry for blocking your way. I hope you have a good lunch, sir."
Still, he's just about ready to stamp Landman and Zack out as another firm of many that wouldn't help the everyday citizen. And because Superman-- for all his power, and his abilities, and his reputation-- is no better than any other man you'd see on the street, then he shouldn't be able to ask them for help, either. It's a sad truth, but it's a truth all the same, and one he's about to carry out the door with him up until he feels something touch his foot and Clark Kent decides it's a sensation that requires a soft 'oh!'.
"I'm sorry," he says over the other man's apology, immediate and definite, "sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't..." Lifting his head somewhat to see who'd come across him, Clark is surprised for all of a moment when he notices the cane and the sunglasses... and then even more surprised when he hears the question that comes with him.
He blinks. "F-Find someone?" And then he looks over his shoulder at the receptionist that'd turned him down right off the bat, as if afraid she'd reprimand him for trying again.
"Well, I don't think so," he admits, turning to look at the other man (even if, he knows, he can't look back). "Um, they actually told me that my case... rather, they told me to leave just now, and I-- I don't want to cause any trouble."
He manages a small smile, soft in appreciation for this man's efforts to speak with him. "But it was, uh, nice to meet you." The outstretched hand is taken, and Clark's grip isn't especially firm, but he manages to shake it just fine. "And I'm sorry for blocking your way. I hope you have a good lunch, sir."
Edited 2019-12-27 15:38 (UTC)
It's half-past four in the morning, and Clark turns over when he hears shuffling from Matt's end of the room. "Hey..." And he'd prepared for this, what with having been given permission to 'make himself at home' about twenty-eight hours earlier, if the smell of coffee over the stove is any indication (Matt didn't have a coffee maker, and Clark made do).
"You fell asleep," is his explanation, "for... fifteen minutes?" Or so his watch says. "But, um, I thought you might've needed the rest."
They had, after all, been on the grind for hours now.
Matt was working faster after Clark had made a quick trip to the Fortress to translate all his documents into braille, but all this accessible information (which he'd waved off as 'a perk of working at the Planet') had also made him work harder. And Clark appreciated hard work as much as the next person-- admired it, really, and how could he not admire Matt, with everything he'd done for him so far?-- but gosh if it didn't make it hard to tell him he might be working too hard.
So the nap was a good thing. In those fifteen minutes Clark made coffee for them, cooked some instant noodles he'd found with some vegetables to make it a little less horrid, and toasted bread with butter. In fact, he was eating some of it now, a piece of toasted bread folded with the noodles in-between like filling for a sandwich.
"...and I definitely think you need the food." He smiles sheepishly. "We completely forgot about dinner earlier."
"You fell asleep," is his explanation, "for... fifteen minutes?" Or so his watch says. "But, um, I thought you might've needed the rest."
They had, after all, been on the grind for hours now.
Matt was working faster after Clark had made a quick trip to the Fortress to translate all his documents into braille, but all this accessible information (which he'd waved off as 'a perk of working at the Planet') had also made him work harder. And Clark appreciated hard work as much as the next person-- admired it, really, and how could he not admire Matt, with everything he'd done for him so far?-- but gosh if it didn't make it hard to tell him he might be working too hard.
So the nap was a good thing. In those fifteen minutes Clark made coffee for them, cooked some instant noodles he'd found with some vegetables to make it a little less horrid, and toasted bread with butter. In fact, he was eating some of it now, a piece of toasted bread folded with the noodles in-between like filling for a sandwich.
"...and I definitely think you need the food." He smiles sheepishly. "We completely forgot about dinner earlier."
Edited 2019-12-29 04:41 (UTC)
He's used to putting in ridiculous hours, interning at Landman and Zack practically requires it. But even Matt has to admit he might be overdoing it a little this time. It's just that he wants so desperately to get this right. Not just for the people whose home is being threatened, but for Clark too. The man has put an incredible amount of faith and trust in Matt; it would be devastating to let him down.
The smell of coffee is probably what rouses him. Raising his head from where it had been resting against his folded arms, he rubs at his face before turning it blearily toward the kitchenette. Coffee, toast, butter, noodles...
"Guess I must have. You didn't have to do that." But he smiles softly at the kindness, pushing his chair back so he can stand and stretch, feeling the pop of joints that tells him he's been sitting for way too long. "God, what time is it? I'm sorry for being such a terrible host."
There's an all-night diner not too far away, he should shoo Clark in that direction to get himself a decent meal. And insist he go back to his motel and sleep. Coffee first, though.
He pads across the floor in his socks, shoes left abandoned hours ago under the dining room table where they'd been working. "I don't think the client is supposed to put in more hours than the attorney, you know."
The smell of coffee is probably what rouses him. Raising his head from where it had been resting against his folded arms, he rubs at his face before turning it blearily toward the kitchenette. Coffee, toast, butter, noodles...
"Guess I must have. You didn't have to do that." But he smiles softly at the kindness, pushing his chair back so he can stand and stretch, feeling the pop of joints that tells him he's been sitting for way too long. "God, what time is it? I'm sorry for being such a terrible host."
There's an all-night diner not too far away, he should shoo Clark in that direction to get himself a decent meal. And insist he go back to his motel and sleep. Coffee first, though.
He pads across the floor in his socks, shoes left abandoned hours ago under the dining room table where they'd been working. "I don't think the client is supposed to put in more hours than the attorney, you know."
Want to hear the one about when I seduced a queen?
There's a stack of notebooks containing enough information to write a whole series of autobiographies, if Bucky really wanted. But it's a jumble of nonsense, memory shards that will never fit cleanly together again. A therapist's nightmare. Useful more as insurance against forgetting himself again than as any kind of coherent narrative on his life.
And for a while, that was fine by him, he wasn't interested in being anything more than a mystery. Lately, though, he's begun to see the wisdom of taking control of the stories being told about him.
Weeks of wandering end with him deciding to hunker down for a while in Metropolis. He has no special connection to the city, and it's big enough for him to blend in and get lost in the crowds, allowing him time to do a little investigating. To get his head around the idea of actually opening about himself to a stranger.
He's not especially surprised that a newspaper doesn't employ the strictest security in the world, with the constant comings and goings at all kinds of hours. It's far from the most difficult mission he's ever carried off, getting into the building that houses the Daily Planet. Keeping his face off any cameras. Making himself comfortable in a well-stuffed leather chair in the corner of the editor-in-chief's office, his cap pulled low over his eyes.
And for a while, that was fine by him, he wasn't interested in being anything more than a mystery. Lately, though, he's begun to see the wisdom of taking control of the stories being told about him.
Weeks of wandering end with him deciding to hunker down for a while in Metropolis. He has no special connection to the city, and it's big enough for him to blend in and get lost in the crowds, allowing him time to do a little investigating. To get his head around the idea of actually opening about himself to a stranger.
He's not especially surprised that a newspaper doesn't employ the strictest security in the world, with the constant comings and goings at all kinds of hours. It's far from the most difficult mission he's ever carried off, getting into the building that houses the Daily Planet. Keeping his face off any cameras. Making himself comfortable in a well-stuffed leather chair in the corner of the editor-in-chief's office, his cap pulled low over his eyes.
After leaving in the middle of work so Superman could deal with a problem in downtown Metropolis, Clark returns to the Daily Planet far too late for it to still be part of the American work day. The guard stationed by the door is surprised to see him-- Mr. Kent, wasn't you s'posed to be home by now? They told me you was on assignment-- and all Clark can do is laugh sheepishly and apologise for bothering him this late. He hadn't intended to be out of the building that long either, after all.
So it's routine work getting into the elevator leading up to his floor. At this time, the building's almost completely dark, and while the elevator itself is lit, when its doors open Clark is greeted by only the dim light of the emergency bulbs. He steps off, pushing his glasses up his nose, and uses his mobile phone to shine a light on his way to the door that leads to his office as editor-in-chief.
...then pauses about two metres away from the door itself with a slight tilt of his head.
(Kal hears the definite beats of a second heartbeat besides his own. He turns his head, looks through his wall, and sees a figure on a chair in the corner of the room. Without any light in his office, all he goes on is what this person "looks" like through heat signature, and automatically he knows it's no-one he recognises.)
The delay is short before Clark goes to open the door. He pushes it like normal, reaches over to the wall by the door to turn it on like normal, and with his back to the room fumbles with turning his mobile light off to return it to his pocket.
"Oh, I hope I've left my bag here..." he mumbles as he turns, his head dipped as he pats his trousers straight and lifting again once that's over. He looks at his office, going from the file cabinets to the shape of his desk--
Only for him to let out a shriek when his gaze lands on the far left corner, eyes darting frantically for something-- anything-- until he settles for lifting both his hands up when he realises there isn't any weapon he can grab.
"M-M-Mister--" Goodness, why must this happen to him? "I-- I'd like to know what you th-think you're doing here! T-T-Trespassing is a crime, sir!"
So it's routine work getting into the elevator leading up to his floor. At this time, the building's almost completely dark, and while the elevator itself is lit, when its doors open Clark is greeted by only the dim light of the emergency bulbs. He steps off, pushing his glasses up his nose, and uses his mobile phone to shine a light on his way to the door that leads to his office as editor-in-chief.
...then pauses about two metres away from the door itself with a slight tilt of his head.
(Kal hears the definite beats of a second heartbeat besides his own. He turns his head, looks through his wall, and sees a figure on a chair in the corner of the room. Without any light in his office, all he goes on is what this person "looks" like through heat signature, and automatically he knows it's no-one he recognises.)
The delay is short before Clark goes to open the door. He pushes it like normal, reaches over to the wall by the door to turn it on like normal, and with his back to the room fumbles with turning his mobile light off to return it to his pocket.
"Oh, I hope I've left my bag here..." he mumbles as he turns, his head dipped as he pats his trousers straight and lifting again once that's over. He looks at his office, going from the file cabinets to the shape of his desk--
Only for him to let out a shriek when his gaze lands on the far left corner, eyes darting frantically for something-- anything-- until he settles for lifting both his hands up when he realises there isn't any weapon he can grab.
"M-M-Mister--" Goodness, why must this happen to him? "I-- I'd like to know what you th-think you're doing here! T-T-Trespassing is a crime, sir!"
Edited 2020-01-04 14:02 (UTC)
Eddie hasn't wooed someone in years so he tries not to rush planning the first outing. If he's going to do this he's going to do it properly. The planning is exciting in a way he'd all but forgotten. Like setting a trap. Of course, he has no nefarious plans that might be suggested by such a word. There's no reason to think Clark is anything but as a sweet and kind as his words have suggested. Certainly he can be nothing like the sluts that came before him, before Eddie's arrest.
There is a limit to what he can plan though, as his resources are still sadly limited. He has no qualms about stealing to get what he wants but he doesn't want to draw the attention of the police. Murkoff did him one favour in that he's harder to recognise now, with his face scarred and disfigured by their fucking machine. No one recognises him from the reports and pictures that had accompanied his trial. But he doesn't want to run the risk of being arrested again and that means being careful what he takes and from where.
So he keeps it simple. There's something to be said for simple. It's a shame he can't yet manage the sort of gift he'd like to bring - he's going to have to break into a shop soon and procure himself needed sewing supplies for next time, risks be damned - but until then. Simple.
He sends the message the day before, to make sure Clark won't be busy.
Darling. Can I borrow you tomorrow? For lunch? There's a park near your newspaper that we could meet at.
There is a limit to what he can plan though, as his resources are still sadly limited. He has no qualms about stealing to get what he wants but he doesn't want to draw the attention of the police. Murkoff did him one favour in that he's harder to recognise now, with his face scarred and disfigured by their fucking machine. No one recognises him from the reports and pictures that had accompanied his trial. But he doesn't want to run the risk of being arrested again and that means being careful what he takes and from where.
So he keeps it simple. There's something to be said for simple. It's a shame he can't yet manage the sort of gift he'd like to bring - he's going to have to break into a shop soon and procure himself needed sewing supplies for next time, risks be damned - but until then. Simple.
He sends the message the day before, to make sure Clark won't be busy.
Darling. Can I borrow you tomorrow? For lunch? There's a park near your newspaper that we could meet at.
Clark doesn't reply until later after being caught in a meeting for what might as well have been the entire day. By the end of it he's starving, his blood feeling like it's about one-hundred percent coffee, but he'd gotten a darned good amount of work done and could at least spend the rest of his day relaxing.
It's in the middle of fixing his things in his office, most of the employees on his floor gone, that he thinks to check his phone, only to cringe at the sight of all the calls he'd missed and the texts he'd received. "Oh, no..." So he sifts through them, answering messages in chronological order and taking note of who'd called so he can return the sentiment tomorrow. He works fast enough, thumb practically flying over the keypad (Clark owns a flip phone-- it does the job well enough!), and is efficient up until he comes across a message with Eddie's name on it.
And, despite himself, feels his heartrate quicken just a mite over the norm.
One of the things he'd brought up in that meeting had been in relation to the Planet's new attempts to look into the Murkoff Corporation and whatever it is they were hoping to achieve with their crimes against human rights. Seeing the message with Eddie's name on it makes him smile; for his sake, Clark hopes that the exposure hits Murkoff where it hurts most.
He keys in a reply, the corners of his eyes soft as he rests his elbow on the table and takes his cheek in hand.
Hi, Eddie! :-)
I'll clear my schedule for you. My break's from 1-2, are you okay with that?
Courting. Goodness, if Clark only knew one day he'd be the one courted-- he can only imagine what his mother would say now, if she knew.
I could extend it if it's too short.
And with that sent, he finishes the last of his text messages before going to put on his suit jacket and coat, and his hat back onto his head. It's time to go home.
It's in the middle of fixing his things in his office, most of the employees on his floor gone, that he thinks to check his phone, only to cringe at the sight of all the calls he'd missed and the texts he'd received. "Oh, no..." So he sifts through them, answering messages in chronological order and taking note of who'd called so he can return the sentiment tomorrow. He works fast enough, thumb practically flying over the keypad (Clark owns a flip phone-- it does the job well enough!), and is efficient up until he comes across a message with Eddie's name on it.
And, despite himself, feels his heartrate quicken just a mite over the norm.
One of the things he'd brought up in that meeting had been in relation to the Planet's new attempts to look into the Murkoff Corporation and whatever it is they were hoping to achieve with their crimes against human rights. Seeing the message with Eddie's name on it makes him smile; for his sake, Clark hopes that the exposure hits Murkoff where it hurts most.
He keys in a reply, the corners of his eyes soft as he rests his elbow on the table and takes his cheek in hand.
Hi, Eddie! :-)
I'll clear my schedule for you. My break's from 1-2, are you okay with that?
Courting. Goodness, if Clark only knew one day he'd be the one courted-- he can only imagine what his mother would say now, if she knew.
I could extend it if it's too short.
And with that sent, he finishes the last of his text messages before going to put on his suit jacket and coat, and his hat back onto his head. It's time to go home.
Edited 2020-01-06 11:36 (UTC)
every time i make clark say something that i know will be horribly interpreted i feel joy
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
uplifters
- 2020-01-09 02:08 (UTC) - Expandit seems to be a running theme for our characters, now that i think about it
geumsun
- 2020-01-12 03:55 (UTC) - Expandi love pineapple actually
but i accept you even if you don't
but i accept you even if you don't
from here.[ In Harley's defence, that actually isn't a half-bad idea. She could be suggesting so much worse, and the thought of a pyjama party in comparison to that is nothing. ]
All right.
The pillow fight is just pretend though, isn't it?
They are pillows. They ain't supposed to hurt...
The point is to have fun
The point is to have fun
Any feedback on that pizza in particular, or is it a new item?
I'd like that. When?
I'd like that. When?
cont. to this[ How old is he to have trapped Elliot against his door, shivers crawling down his spine at the brush of his beard? Goodness, when Clark'd intended to drive him back home after what he believed was a successful date-- he'd managed candlelight when he took Elliot to a small, comfy little restaurant with a live guitarist and really good craft beer-- he'd expected a good night kiss, but.
But Lord, in his day, you didn't use tongue on the first date. (Not that Clark had a lot of first dates, per se-- he'd only ever taken Lois out, he realises, and their first date had been lacklustre and kind of boring.) Now Clark finds himself with one hand over Elliot's cheek, palm warm against his jaw, and their tongues brushing together in a way that has him exhaling slowly through his nose.
When he pulls away it's only to let Elliot breathe, but his hand is still on his face, and his other hand is placed with a fond little stroke of his thumb over the angle of Elliot's hip. ]
Ah, [ he tilts his head, nose nudging lightly at the shell of Elliot's ear before he murmurs into it ] sorry. I got a little carried away.
[ elliot is pretty sure that you aren't supposed to kiss on the first date, like at all. not like he ever cared for the common rules and conventions of dating, but the thought crosses his mind very briefly, before it gets pushed aside with a simple brush of a tongue against his own.
the date was great - one of the best he has ever been on, if he's being honest - so the fact that the only mouth stuff that happened was a lot of talking didn't even bother him. but here he is, leaning against a door with clark's hand on his face and his mouth on his own.
hearing those words - that apology - has elliot huff out a laugh. he takes a moment or two to catch his breath, and when he leans in again, his lips brush against clark's as he asks, ]
Wanna get carried away a bit more, then?
the date was great - one of the best he has ever been on, if he's being honest - so the fact that the only mouth stuff that happened was a lot of talking didn't even bother him. but here he is, leaning against a door with clark's hand on his face and his mouth on his own.
hearing those words - that apology - has elliot huff out a laugh. he takes a moment or two to catch his breath, and when he leans in again, his lips brush against clark's as he asks, ]
Wanna get carried away a bit more, then?
Orrr I could bring it to you at work, I've been wanting to see the place behind the stories.
I'll whisper to you with it this evening ;)
I'll whisper to you with it this evening ;)
Stevie Nicks is playing over the jukebox in the diner, and Clark finds himself tapping his foot to it as he sits in a booth in the back corner, away from the windows. He's sat in a way that he can look at them and see the outside, though; the idea is that Barnes would be able to slip in and his back would be to the world at large. It's private without being conspicuous, which he imagines is a concept that Barnes had been going for to begin with. Clark isn't even in the typical, three-piece suit he wears to work-- he's got a collared shirt, a hoodie worn with age, a pair of cargo pants that've seen better days, and shoes that've been to hell and back. The only thing truly identical to the man Barnes met the week before are the glasses; his hair looks too wind-mussed to be clean.
Clark hasn't ordered any food yet, but he has a glass of juice served up and a grateful smile for the waitress who'd given it to him. After his first gulp, he keeps his eyes on the large glass window; there's no sign of Barnes yet, but Clark had come early. It'll be no time at all.
Stevie continues to play, and Clark's started to bob his head gently with the tap of his foot. He thinks, briefly, about picking something after, but the girls in the booth on the other side are dancing in their seats. Chances are they've laid claim to it.
But when his head turns from the girls back to the window, he finds himself jumping slightly instead when he sees Barnes seemingly out of nowhere-- inside the building, too, instead of seen through a layer of glass. To Clark's credit, he doesn't scream this time, and in fact melts from that look of surprise to one of friendly familiarity, blue eyes bright in the light that filters from outdoors.
"You made it!" he chirps, getting to his feet, and he holds his hand out for a shake with a smile that crinkles his eyes. "Gosh, Jimmy, how long's it been since we last seen each other? Was it at Seattle's before it closed down?"
If it isn't obvious, Clark's playing the role of 'friend you've reunited with after some arbitrary length of time apart'. Hopefully Barnes gets the hint-- that they're just friends today, that they're not talking about anything particularly serious in their booth, not at all, that nobody would be suspicious of two pals having a reunion-- and plays along.
Clark hasn't ordered any food yet, but he has a glass of juice served up and a grateful smile for the waitress who'd given it to him. After his first gulp, he keeps his eyes on the large glass window; there's no sign of Barnes yet, but Clark had come early. It'll be no time at all.
Stevie continues to play, and Clark's started to bob his head gently with the tap of his foot. He thinks, briefly, about picking something after, but the girls in the booth on the other side are dancing in their seats. Chances are they've laid claim to it.
But when his head turns from the girls back to the window, he finds himself jumping slightly instead when he sees Barnes seemingly out of nowhere-- inside the building, too, instead of seen through a layer of glass. To Clark's credit, he doesn't scream this time, and in fact melts from that look of surprise to one of friendly familiarity, blue eyes bright in the light that filters from outdoors.
"You made it!" he chirps, getting to his feet, and he holds his hand out for a shake with a smile that crinkles his eyes. "Gosh, Jimmy, how long's it been since we last seen each other? Was it at Seattle's before it closed down?"
If it isn't obvious, Clark's playing the role of 'friend you've reunited with after some arbitrary length of time apart'. Hopefully Barnes gets the hint-- that they're just friends today, that they're not talking about anything particularly serious in their booth, not at all, that nobody would be suspicious of two pals having a reunion-- and plays along.
Edited 2020-01-30 00:23 (UTC)
It shouldn't be a surprise that he's been watching the diner for a while, from a couple different locations with good vantage points. The man he's meeting arrives earlier than expected, but not so early as to be suspicious, so Bucky only makes him wait a few minutes. He doesn't miss the way Clark jumps a bit, but the quick move to create a cover for their meeting earns a point or two of respect.
Respect that will be felt just as soon as the instinctive urge to shy away from the outstretched hand and sudden enthusiasm abates. In fact, there is a moment of tension when Bucky freezes, eyes wide as he looks for all the world like he's going to turn and run. It's only a second or two, though, and then he takes the offered hand and turns his lips up in a lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Said I'd be here, you callin' me a liar, punk?" The warm drawl brings out a heavy Brooklyn accent that hadn't been so evident the last time they met, and his demeanor softens slightly as he slides into his side of the booth.
He keeps close to the edge in case he needs to be on his feet quickly, and doesn't seem interested in the menu, but he's polite and respectful to the waitress when he asks for a cup of coffee.
"Didn't take you for an actor, Kent." After a moment of fiddling with his cap (he should take it off, it's impolite to wear your hat indoors, but times have changed now haven't they?), he drops his hands into his lap, unsure what to do with them and almost sighing out loud when a mug appears that he can wrap his gloved fingers around.
Respect that will be felt just as soon as the instinctive urge to shy away from the outstretched hand and sudden enthusiasm abates. In fact, there is a moment of tension when Bucky freezes, eyes wide as he looks for all the world like he's going to turn and run. It's only a second or two, though, and then he takes the offered hand and turns his lips up in a lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Said I'd be here, you callin' me a liar, punk?" The warm drawl brings out a heavy Brooklyn accent that hadn't been so evident the last time they met, and his demeanor softens slightly as he slides into his side of the booth.
He keeps close to the edge in case he needs to be on his feet quickly, and doesn't seem interested in the menu, but he's polite and respectful to the waitress when he asks for a cup of coffee.
"Didn't take you for an actor, Kent." After a moment of fiddling with his cap (he should take it off, it's impolite to wear your hat indoors, but times have changed now haven't they?), he drops his hands into his lap, unsure what to do with them and almost sighing out loud when a mug appears that he can wrap his gloved fingers around.
[That bright and sunny afternoon, Iroha left the Metropolis offices with regret that he couldn't stay longer. The plans they'd made ought to be enough. Knowing he would spend time with someone whose company he enjoyed was usually all he needed to get on with whatever responsibilities for the day. He'd never been like the lovesick underlings who became clumsy and lost their grip on all priorities. That was an annoying situation to deal with in the workplace...but he also longed to experience it for himself, deep down.
Wide-eyed and moonfaced was not a good look. He was a grown man, not a pining teen. But after he rushed back to Kikuya, it was more difficult than usual to pick up where he had left off. Schedules to plan, payments and deliveries, introductions and overseeing others, etc. He enjoyed his job, so why was it tasteless just because he had been in Clark's cheerful company for an hour?
He assumed that texts at 3am would disturb Clark. That was when Iroha could settle down in his own bed after bathing. Turning his phone over and over in his hand was utterly unlike him. Troubled, Iroha put it down and had a restless sleep.
The Superbowl party was more of the same, although he had the welcome distraction of a large number of other people to whom he introduced Clark, and behaved impeccably. He kept his hands to himself, and it was disturbingly painful how difficult that actually was to execute.
They parted ways with Iroha apologizing for his workload but social gatherings were a mine of untapped potential clients. Two days of downtime passed. When one of his top ranking courtesans - one whose mouth had no off switch no matter how desperately he wished he could install one - started poking Iroha in the back and asking 'who is it?' he finally acknowledged he was in over his head.]
Can we meet? Privately.
[He waited until late evening and handed over Kikuya's floor to someone else. If Clark were occupied he wouldn't be surprised but...everything between them so far made Iroha decide that even if he were in the middle of something, if it wasn't life-or-death, he was allowed to be selfish.]
Wide-eyed and moonfaced was not a good look. He was a grown man, not a pining teen. But after he rushed back to Kikuya, it was more difficult than usual to pick up where he had left off. Schedules to plan, payments and deliveries, introductions and overseeing others, etc. He enjoyed his job, so why was it tasteless just because he had been in Clark's cheerful company for an hour?
He assumed that texts at 3am would disturb Clark. That was when Iroha could settle down in his own bed after bathing. Turning his phone over and over in his hand was utterly unlike him. Troubled, Iroha put it down and had a restless sleep.
The Superbowl party was more of the same, although he had the welcome distraction of a large number of other people to whom he introduced Clark, and behaved impeccably. He kept his hands to himself, and it was disturbingly painful how difficult that actually was to execute.
They parted ways with Iroha apologizing for his workload but social gatherings were a mine of untapped potential clients. Two days of downtime passed. When one of his top ranking courtesans - one whose mouth had no off switch no matter how desperately he wished he could install one - started poking Iroha in the back and asking 'who is it?' he finally acknowledged he was in over his head.]
Can we meet? Privately.
[He waited until late evening and handed over Kikuya's floor to someone else. If Clark were occupied he wouldn't be surprised but...everything between them so far made Iroha decide that even if he were in the middle of something, if it wasn't life-or-death, he was allowed to be selfish.]
[ Clark replies even later in the evening, with the moon full out and the stars bright in the dark and the clock already in the A.M. zone. ]
Hi, Iroha! :-) It's nice to hear from you. [ Because greetings matter, and so does the sentiment. That's what Ma always told him. ] Of course we can meet.
When did you want to?
[ He doesn't want to say that "now" would be an iffy time, even though it kind of is even in his own standards. This is less because he doesn't want to offend and more because of his own selfishness. Clark has always felt too much, wanted too hard-- that applies here, too. Here especially. Being in Iroha's space during the party had made him want to spend all of it holding his hand if only for some point of contact as opposed to none; Clark had held himself back, yes, but that hadn't gotten the feeling to disappear at all.
And he still feels it now, even if he's busy. ]
Oh, I should probably ask "where" too, huh? Hahaha!
Hi, Iroha! :-) It's nice to hear from you. [ Because greetings matter, and so does the sentiment. That's what Ma always told him. ] Of course we can meet.
When did you want to?
[ He doesn't want to say that "now" would be an iffy time, even though it kind of is even in his own standards. This is less because he doesn't want to offend and more because of his own selfishness. Clark has always felt too much, wanted too hard-- that applies here, too. Here especially. Being in Iroha's space during the party had made him want to spend all of it holding his hand if only for some point of contact as opposed to none; Clark had held himself back, yes, but that hadn't gotten the feeling to disappear at all.
And he still feels it now, even if he's busy. ]
Oh, I should probably ask "where" too, huh? Hahaha!
[ Clark is never going to trust magic. Which is to say that the spell? Curse? Curse spell? on him that mimics the radiation of a red sun is a thousand times worse than it would've already been if he were more comfortable about all this mystical nonsense.
He feels like pudding. Not human, just... pudding. Feels like glass bones and paper skin.
Shazam had referred him to Justice League Dark, who'd then assigned their very own leader to him.
Clark feels a bit like a specimen, lying on a table the way he is and feeling like he's drugged, and that's why he opens his idiot mouth and says idiot things like: ] Hey.
Fuck, marry, kill: Batman, Green Arrow, and the Flash.
He feels like pudding. Not human, just... pudding. Feels like glass bones and paper skin.
Shazam had referred him to Justice League Dark, who'd then assigned their very own leader to him.
Clark feels a bit like a specimen, lying on a table the way he is and feeling like he's drugged, and that's why he opens his idiot mouth and says idiot things like: ] Hey.
Fuck, marry, kill: Batman, Green Arrow, and the Flash.
[ John has his back to Clark, working on something, when he speaks up, and he pauses, turns halfway, and raises one eyebrow. ]
What?
[ Only his accent's stupid, so it comes out like wot? instead, and he laughs his raspy smoker's laugh. ] Ah, shit, mate, I don't know. Marry Batman, he'd put me up in his nice place. Fuck... Green Arrow. Kill the Flash if I could catch his ass, and mostly because he's the only one left and you didn't give me the "whatever" option.
[ He scrunches his mouth to one side as he turns the rest of the way to face him. ] This magic doing your head in, eh? Your turn.
What?
[ Only his accent's stupid, so it comes out like wot? instead, and he laughs his raspy smoker's laugh. ] Ah, shit, mate, I don't know. Marry Batman, he'd put me up in his nice place. Fuck... Green Arrow. Kill the Flash if I could catch his ass, and mostly because he's the only one left and you didn't give me the "whatever" option.
[ He scrunches his mouth to one side as he turns the rest of the way to face him. ] This magic doing your head in, eh? Your turn.
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